There is a mouth in New Orleans
that’s called the Biting Tongue.
It’s been the ruin of many a busboy.
Alas, you’re looking at one.

My mother was a cuisinier,
My father was a cook.
And now that I’ve entered the trade,
I see that I’m forsook.

The only thing a cooker needs
is a pot, some fuel and a match.
And a mouth to feed, so it’s satisfied,
and that, listener, is the catch.

To feed the Biting Tongue couldn’t work.
You start, but it doesn’t end.
It eats and eats, and eats and eats.
That mouth’s will will never bend.

I have seen restaurants bankrupted
attempting to fulfill those jaws.
Diners foreclosed, and bankers deposed
with franchise brands breaking bylaws.

Even I, myself, as a busboy,
have been crushed by Biting Tongue’s needs.
My lungs have been taxed and my legs have collapsed
all to provide him his feeds.

There is a house in Old Orleans
and I pray the mouth goes there
where the food is hot and the prices not
that can maybe provide the right fare.

And if this place doesn’t do the trick
to bring the devoid tummy down?
At least it will have gotten him
to at last no longer be around.